Page 199 of Top Shelf

“I planned for us to sleep.”

I look at his face and raise a brow.

“Liar.”

“Well.” His mouth lifts at the corner. “I had hoped.”

A laugh catches against his lips when I pull him down by the front of his shirt. “You sneaky Swedish slut.”

The low growl that rumbles through him and into me feels better than a laugh, but instead of pushing me onto the bed, Viktor steps away and crosses to one of the few unopened boxes beside the dresser. I’m halfway through complaining when he opens the wooden keepsake box from Sweden and pulls out a length of blue and green woven material.

Everything in me stops as I stare at the ribbon.

The same one his family wrapped around our joined hands beneath the birch arch in Solvik, the same one I once whispered about being suspiciously close to rope in Ebba’s kitchen, and Viktor had informed me—with great dignity—that ribbon was absolutely not rope.

My mouth drops open. “No fucking way. You kept that?”

“Of course, yes.”

His answer is so simple it hurts, and I cross the room to touch the ribbon where it hangs between his fingers.

“This is the one that bound us? The one that was absolutely, categorically not rope.”

“Yes. It is still not rope.”

I look from the ribbon to his face, then back again. “Looks pretty fucking rope-adjacent from here.”

“Perhaps.”

“This tied us together once,” I murmur.

Viktor’s eyes lift to mine. “No, Heidi. We did that ourselves.”

My throat closes, and he reaches out, cupping my face tenderly with his free hand.

“So,” I say, because someone has to rescue us from becoming unbearably sincere in a room where I’m planning to get fucked. “What exactly are your intentions with this definitely-not-rope?”

“My intentions?”

“Yeah.”

He steps into me, fingers brushing the inside of my palm. “My intentions are inappropriate for a family heirloom.”

A laugh catches in my throat. “Good answer.”

His fingers close loosely around my wrist, and he lifts it, pressing his mouth to my skin. “Same rules as always?”

The warmth in my chest settles lower. “Yes.”

He checks anyway. If I want my hands free, I tell him. If anything hurts wrong, I tell him. If I change my mind, the ribbon comes off. I give him the answer he’s waiting for, and whatever softness was left in his expression turns into something much hungrier.

Then he draws my shirt over my head, removing it with infuriating patience while I stand in front of him wearing less and less clothing.

“You know,” I say as he unhooks my bra, “moving day traditionally involves shared labor.”

“It does.”

“You seem overdressed.”